


Fallen Angel

by bookwormchocaholic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Buddy Cop Drama, F/M, and i stole her, au of all au's, isabelle schwartz was Emilie de Ravin's creation, ouat 7x04 inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 03:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12926136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookwormchocaholic/pseuds/bookwormchocaholic
Summary: After waking from being shot, Det. Weaver continues to receive visits from an ethereal woman in his dreams.





	Fallen Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Not beta-ed, expect loads of mistakes. Also: Isabelle Schwartz is the persona the Emilie de Ravin came up with for Belle if she lived in Hyperion Heights.

Weaver muttered a curse and grimaced as he squirmed further down into the flattened hospital mattress. _Hell, I’m waking up._ He clenched his eyes shut and wished he could return to the state of drug induced bliss. His whole body was rigid and pain seared through every nerve ending.

The muddled memory of Tilly Jones resurfaced, of her chanting and waving the gun in his face, claiming that she only she could help him and wake him up from the curse. The girl suffered from a slew of mental illnesses and lived on the streets. As a detective -albeit a shady one - he kept an eye on her and up until she shot him, she had been fairly harmless. More troubled than anything, Tilly needed someone to watch after her.

The impact of the shell sent him flying backwards to the floor of the abandoned shed that Tilly had taken up residence in. He could still feel the steady stream leaking out of his chest and pooling under his listless form. The life force had been draining out of him and a humming sound blared in his ears.

With a grunt, Weaver cracked one of his eyes open. His lids felt like sandpaper against his aged orbs. He blinked and he furrowed his brow as his bleary vision came into focus.

A woman was perched on the side of the bed. She was leaning over, with an arm braced on each side of his waist. Her long, chestnut curls were swept to the side in a loose tail and she pinned him down with her large, azure gaze. High cheek bones, porcelain skin, a kittenish smile – she was beautiful. Her delicious looking lips mouthed words that he couldn’t make and he gasped as she dipped her head to brush her lips against his.

He strained his neck to meet her half way, but when an aura of blue shrouded her and feathery snowflakes began to fall, it occurred to him that there was something ethereal about the woman.

Weaver jerked awake and muttered a slew of profanities when Det. Rogers, his partner, came into view. The younger man’s presence ought to have been reassuring, a sign that he had not yet kicked the bucket, but he would have preferred to see that angelic creature rather than Rogers.

“Weaver?” A relieved smile spread across the lower half of Roger’s dark face. His head bobbed, reminding Weaver of one of those bobble head dogs on a dashboard. The young man was about as loyal as a canine too. “Welcome back to the land of the living.” He nudged one of his knuckles into Weaver’s forearm.

Weaver wished he could sit up and have a proper look around, but every little movement made his skin stretch his chest wound. Instead, he had to settle scanning the room for the woman who seemed more flesh and blood than of spirit.

“Where is she?” Weaver croaked out impatiently when he couldn’t locate her.

It was as though she had vanished into a mist.

“Don’t worry.” Rogers replied, “Tilly is in the psych ward and she’s medicated.” His partner squinted as he studied him. “She shot you, remember?”

“Vaguely.” Weaver raised his lip in a sneer. He couldn’t care less about Tilly now that she was subdued and safe. The only thing that mattered right now was figuring out where that angelic looking woman went. He ran his tongue over his cracked lips, relishing in the memory of her attempting to kiss him. “Was someone else here? A woman. Brown hair, blue eyes, a beautiful face you can’t forget?” His burr was so thick that even he couldn’t make out what he was saying.

Rogers let out a chortle. “No.” He moved towards the foot of the bed and snatching up the chart, he skimmed through the page. “Ah, they’ve got you on morphine. I hear that’s some good shit.” He returned the clipboard to its rightful spot.

Weaver made no response to that. What did morphine have to do with the woman who visited him? “She was right here.” He insisted, pointing to the vacant spot on the edge of the bed.

Rogers rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, get some rest. You’ll be out of commission for a while.”

“I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.” Weaver responded.

He’d rather have died than take time off. The last time he did, due to another gunshot wound, he ended up an alcoholic because had too much time one his hands. They’d assign him desk duty, which would be terrible, but it would be better than nothing.

Rogers threw one of his hands in the air. “Bloody hell, Weaver!” He exclaimed. “You almost died!”

Weaver cringed at the thought. The number of times he had his close shaves with death, made him wonder if he was a cat in previous life. He had survived more than his share of scrapes. Not that he’d given it too much thought. In fact, he did his utmost to put all of his near-death experiences out of his head completely.

“Leave me the hell alone.” Weaver growled at his partner.

He heard Rogers sigh and depart. Only then did he relax enough to sleep.

#

Weaver drummed his fingers on his desk and allowed his gaze to drift out the window. The weather was dismal. What had begun as a crisp and vibrant fall had faded away and now ushered in an early winter. There had been an abundance of rain that the dirt turned to slop and the sewers backed up, making Hyperion Heights smell like a skanky, old wet dog. Still, he could not tear his eyes away from the people on scurrying about on the sidewalk below.

It had been three days since he had been shot. He was back at work, of course, trying not to lose his temper over the mind-numbing amount of paperwork he had to do. Filling out reports and taking calls had taken a back seat for now though.

The brunette woman had visited him again, this time in his dreams. The images he had were very vivid. They were of her, taking him by the arm and leading him off. He willingly followed. She would be talking and he’d make a joke, which would send her off into a fit of giggles. Then she’d stop and tug his head down and kiss him!

Weaver would always wake up at that exact moment, groping the sweat damp sheets twisted around his legs, in search for her. And the woman of his dreams was nowhere to be found.

Weaver snapped to attention when Rogers waved his prosthetic hand in Weaver’s face.

“Weaver? Hey, Weaver?” Rogers backed away when Weaver shot him a warning look. More than once Weaver had threatened to take his other hand if he waved that bloody thing at him. “Maybe you should get some fresh air. You’ve been at that desk all morning.”

Weaver ignored the man’s extended hand of assistance and stood on his own. It hurt like hell whenever he moved, even slightly, but he didn’t want to be reliant on someone else. Particularly Rogers. The guy meant well, but his eagle scout, do-gooder attitude got under his skin from time to time.

On his way out of the office, Weaver stole a glimpse at the clock over the doorway. It was nearly noon. _I spent most of the morning, staring out the window, thinking of that brunette woman._ He stalked outdoors but his pace began to slow when he felt like he was missing something.

_The woman._

Weaver shook his head and took refuge on the bench beneath the shedding sycamore tree. Blood red leaves floating down like fat lazy rain drops and collected into piles. Dreams are just dreams. Nothing more. But his gut told him that there was more to the brunette woman who “visited” him ever since he got shot.

Weaver hadn’t been outside five minutes before Rogers joined him. “You think you should be here today?” His partner sighed wearily. “No one would think less of you if-”

“Would you shut up about that?” Weaver snapped and self-consciously raked his fingers through his newly cropped hair. He had gotten his customary floof cut short last week, in an attempt to appear younger. The higher-ups were always hinting about him retiring. His fingers fumbled for the hair that was no longer there. “Damn it…” He paused, hesitating because he knew what he was about to say would make his partner second-guess his sanity. “Do you believe in angels?”

The question sounded stupid coming from someone like him. _I’m a walking cliché._ A twice divorced, alcoholic cop with anger management issues, he was the last one in the world to think about angels. But what else could that brunette woman be? She vanished as quickly as she appeared. Her beauty was ethereal. He was the only one who could see her. His visions began at the hospital and had only since become more frequent.

“What? Have you found religion?” Rogers plopped down on the bench next to him. “I mean, after what happened, I could understand.”

“Hell no.” Weaver glanced over his shoulder and then looked around, ensuring that no one else was listening in. It was one thing to tell Rogers; they were partners, they looked after one another. But to have someone else on the force, overhear Elijah Weaver rambling about angels and visions, they’d lock him away for sure. In a sharp whisper, he explained, “When I was in the hospital and unconscious, I had a vision of a beautiful woman and now whenever I go to sleep, she visits me. So, do you believe in angels or ghosts or whatever?”

Weaver fully expected Rogers to be able to reason this out for him. His partner was an eagle scout; he did everything by the book and always made the right choices. The younger man admitted his first day on the job that he always wanted to be a cop because he wanted to make a difference, to make the world a better place. So, Weaver figured that Rogers had to have some kind of religious upbringing or a belief system. Anything, that would explain the brunette woman in the visions.

“I don’t know, I guess there must be something out there.” Rogers shrugged, sounding flustered, “Are you sure it’s not the morphine? Or stress?”

Weaver got up too quickly and sucked in a breath when a searing pain seized his chest. “Yes!” He pressed his palm to his wound to focus and quell some of the ache. “I’ve been shot and have had morphine before. I’ve never had a reaction like this.”

Even when he had been drinking his heaviest, he never hallucinated. He had been out of control and he lashed out at others, but he never dreamt up someone who was not there. Particularly a gorgeous brunette.

Weaver paced and then faced his partner once more.

“I’ve had worse problems than having a beautiful woman visit me in my dreams.” Rogers snickered and then shook his head. “Look, you almost died. You’re a tough old bastard, but death can shake anyone up. Maybe you should talk to Dr. Hopper. He’s pretty good.”

Weaver nodded his head in reluctance. _Maybe Rogers is right._ The last time he was shot, he was seven years younger and physically stronger, and the drinking had been a social thing. Maybe all of the stress of the job and his brush was death was weighing on him more than he wanted to admit to.

Whatever it was, from this point on he would keep his visions to himself. The last thing he wanted was to end up in Dr. Hopper’s office, with that mousy red-haired man shrinking his head.

#

Weaver exhaled as the elevator doors slid open. _It’s now or never._ He tugged on the folds of his jean jacket, attempting to stretch the denim across his chest. Since his weight gain a couple years ago, his clothes fit snugger, but he hated shopping and would rather shave his eyeballs than be caught dead in a mall.

He shuffled out into the hall and meandered near the nurse’s station for a couple of minutes, almost knocking into another visitor. “Move it!” Weaver barked out the order, and though the man towered over him, he scrambled out of the way.

If he waited much longer, he’d lose his nerve.

The angelic woman had visited him again last night in his dreams. It began well, in the vision they were walking hand in hand, marveling at the starry host above. She planted a playful kiss square on his lips and dashed away before he could chase after her. Then his feet sank into the asphalt of the street and he couldn’t move, no matter how hard he tried to lift his legs. Seconds later, a car came out of nowhere and hit the woman. She rolled across the hood and landed limply near a curb. The vehicle peeled out, leaving behind tire treads on the road.

Weaver woke up shouting and crying…crying for the first time in years. He hadn’t cried when he had been shot or had to go through AA. But for this woman, he sobbed hard enough that he began to hyperventilate and nearly pass out.

She was dead. That’s why she was appearing to him. That had to be it. She was dead and now an angel, and she was appearing to him because she wanted him to solve her case.

He calmed down enough to take a shower and go into work to read up on recent hit and run cases. It wasn’t long before he found one that fit the scenario in his dream.

It happened the night he was shot. A woman was hit; there were no witnesses; and the driver left her to die. To his relief, he also learned that victim wasn’t dead. She was at the hospital, on a ventilator.

Her name was Isabelle Schwartz.

Weaver lingered outside the patient’s room and sent up a silent plea for help…although he didn’t know who exactly he was asking for help. Perhaps it was the same Higher Power he had trusted in to get him to reach sobriety.

He passed through the door way and felt a dull ache settle in his chest. And it was not due to his wound. The angel from his dreams was lying in bed, hooked up to a dozen or so beeping machines, a tube jammed down her throat that inflated and deflated her chest.

He made a whiney sound at the back of his throat as he edged closer to her.

Isabelle’s petite frame looked so dwarfed in that large bed. Her delicate skin was battered and bruised, along with a smattering of cuts fringing her brow. She was still beautiful; an artist couldn’t render a likeness as lovely as her. It was a miracle that she had survived the accident. A lesser person would have ended up in a body bag. In one of those thin nightgowns, she had a simple blanket to cover her, which couldn’t have been warm enough.

“Oh God…Isabelle.” Weaver moaned, his lip quivering. Tears rolled into the cracks of his wrinkles and dripped down. He cautiously brushed the rough pads of his fingertips along jawline and hoped that he didn’t cause her any pain. “I can’t believe you’re real.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Weaver retracted his hand, already missing the feel of Isabelle’s creamy skin. He swiveled in his heel and came face to face to a bulky, large man, with graying hair. His protruding eyes were blazing, the muscles in his round face were rigid. While the man and Isabelle looked nothing alike, Weaver was willing to bet that he was Isabelle’s father.

“Apologies.” Weaver retrieved his badge from his pocket and showed it to the man. “Det. Weaver. I am investigating Isabelle Schwartz’s accident.”

Unofficially, that is, but he kept that little fact to himself. Some other officer had been assigned to the case, but with no witnesses and very little evidence go on, that officer was focused on more solvable cases.

The rage dissolved from the man’s face, only to be replaced with a look of bleakness. “I am Moe Schwartz, Isabelle’s father.” Moe moseyed to the bed and leaning over, he brushed his lips against Isabelle’s hairline. “My little girl. My Isabelle, she is so intelligent and beautiful, like her mother. She’s perfect.” Straightening up, he shook his round head and shrugged helplessly. “Why do things like this happen to people like her?”

Weaver sniffed and mumbled, “Only God knows.”

“Well, I wish he would explain it to me.” Moe groused and pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his eyes.

“Tell me about Isabelle.” Weaver urged, shoving his badge back into his pocket. The pad and paper remained in his pocket; he had no need to take notes, he’d commit everything about Isabelle to memory.

Moe smiled for the first time since he came into the room. “Isabelle is my angel. She works at an animal shelter and she has such a big heart that she has five cats of her own. Whenever they can’t find one a home or one is about to be put down, she takes it in. She volunteers her free time at soup kitchens and other animal rescues, but she always has time for her old man.”

Weaver observed Moe the whole time he talked of his daughter. From his warmth and devotion, he knew in his heart of hearts that Moe had nothing to do with Isabelle’s accident. No, he was a father who adored his child, which was refreshing in a world full of depraved psychopaths.

Moe blew his nose and wiped his eyes again. “She was late for Sunday dinner and then I got the call. Someone hit her and left her in the road like she was a squirrel.” His massive shoulders started to shake as sobs overtook him. “The doctors say it’s out of their hands. They say there is nothing that they can do and that the merciful thing would be to let her go. But how can I give up on my daughter? What would you do?”

Weaver stumbled backwards a couple paces. _Oh, God!_ He didn’t care how many lines it would cross, he would not allow Isabelle to be taken off of life support. He wouldn’t give up on her; he’d find a way to save Isabelle. But as Moe continued to rambled, he realized that the solution was simple. The man needed reassurance that everything was going to be all right. Even if it wasn’t going to be all right, Moe needed to believe that it would be.

Never one to be overly demonstrative, Weaver grasped the man’s shoulder. “I think you should put your faith in Isabelle.” He nodded towards the tiny woman, impressed by her strength. She had survived so far and she appeared in his dreams for a reason. She had been fighting all along. “It can’t be over for her.

“Thank you.” Moe sniffled loudly, his barrel chest expanding. He thrusted his thumb towards the door. “I need to speak to the nurse something. Would you sit with Isabelle until I get back?”

Weaver nodded, sensing that the man more needed to compose himself and hoped to spare his pride. Moe managed a watery smile and backed out of the room.

Weaver sighed and turned back to Isabelle. He wasn’t a praying man or religious by any means but he was willing to get down on hands and knees and beg whatever Higher Power there was to spare this girl.

Bending at the waist, he angled himself so that his mouth was near the shell of her ear. “Isabelle, I don’t know if you can hear me or if you ever had visions of me. I don’t know what it is that’s between us.” He rested his hand on the top of her head and smoothed back her limp hair. “But please, don’t give up. Please, fight, my angel.”

Weaver knew it would be wrong, a line would be crossed. But he never claimed to be a moral man and figured there was no point in resisting now.

He lowered his mouth to her forehead and brushed his lips against it. Straightening to his full height, he noticed a book on the end table. “Wuthering Heights,” he muttered the title out loud. Shrugging, he plucked it up and claiming the seat beside her bed, he began to read to her.

#

“Are you sure about this intel?” Rogers queried as Weaver parallel parked their unmarked car. “We can’t prove he was at the scene.” The younger man gave him a skeptical sideways glance that Weaver chose to disregard.

“My witness is reliable.” Weaver responded and held up a finger before Rogers could pose another question. A large individual roamed past the dilapidated apartment. Similar build, but not the one he was looking for.

His witness was reliable, he just neglected to admit that he was that witness…in a sense.

Isabelle had visited him again the night before. And once more he had been forced to watch the accident, only this time, he made certain that he memorized the license plate before the car sped off. The second he woke, Weaver threw on his clothes and headed down to the precinct to look up the owner of the vehicle. His search came up with Keith Nottingham, a former felon convicted of numerous crimes against women. One of which was using his car to bump into an ex-girlfriend. Whatever his connection was to Isabelle Schwartz, Weaver knew in his gut that Keith was at fault and had intentionally left Isabelle to die in that street.

If Isabelle hadn’t appeared to me, he would have got off scott free.

Rogers crushed the heel of his palm to his brow. “Bloody hell, if this is based on one of your hallucinations-”

“Shut up.” Weaver sat up straight in the driver’s seat, alerted to the large man who staggered out of Keith Nottingham’s apartment. Fingers coiled around the steering wheel, he pointed at the familiar looking man who was now hurling into the bushes. “There he is.”

Rogers started to say something, but Weaver propelled himself out of the car and marched over to his suspect, ready to tear the bastard limb from limb. White hot rage surged through his veins, as he approached Keith. _That damn bastard! He was at the hospital the day I went to see Isabelle!_ Keith had been the one to bump into him near the nurses’ station. Weaver made a fist and were Rogers not two paces behind him, he would have beat the hell out of Keith. After what Keith had done, that son of a bitch had dared to go to the hospital to see Isabelle. Perhaps to ensure that she couldn’t talk.

“Keith Nottingham?” Weaver addressed the man. As he neared the suspect, he wrinkled his nose. The man’s unwashed body reeked of cheap booze and stale cigarettes.

Keith spat on the sidewalk and let out a loud belch. “Yeah, who wants to know?” He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Weaver took out his badge and flashed it at him. “I am Det. Weaver and this is Det. Rogers.” He jutted his chin towards his partner. “Where were you on the 2nd of this month, at approximately 9pm?”

Keith’s mouth swung open. “Uh, at Roni’s.” He ran his dirt corroded fingernails through his greasy hair. “Yeah, I was there all night. You can ask anyone.”

Weaver wanted to kill him for being disgusting alone. That this grotesque excuse for a man dared to cross paths with someone as good and as pure as Isabelle made his stomach roll. That Keith could have touched or been with Isabelle, after all of the heinous things he had done.

Weaver felt the vein in his neck throbbing. “And if I told you that I have evidence that you were involved with a hit and run – what would you say to that?”

“Isabelle Schwartz is a liar.” The blood drained from Keith’s face as he gulped. His tongue slithered out and wetted his fleshy lips. “I wasn’t stalking her; it wasn’t like that.” His frantic gaze swung back and forth between the two detectives. “She – that little slut acted like she was into me at first and then went frigid on me-”

Rogers retrieved the cuffs from his belt and unclasped them. “He never said that the woman’s name was Isabelle.”

“Okay, okay…” Keith brought up his hand, the pitch in his tone raising, “It was an accident, okay? Yeah, I was following her around and trying to catch up to her. She was on foot and my foot slipped on the gas. What can I say? I was wasted, I wasn’t thinking straight.” He gave a shit-eaten-grin as he pointed out, “Isabelle didn’t die though, so I’m not a killer.”

Weaver’s fingers momentarily flexed around his gun and he thought better of it. If he killed the man, he’d never see Isabelle again and Keith would never pay for his actions. He made a fist once more and punched Keith square in the nose. The impact was strong enough to send the bastard backwards on to his ass.

“What the-” Keith howled, cupping his nose, as blood spewed from his nostrils.

Weaver shook his hand, hoping to relieve himself of that tingling sensation. A sharp pain tore through his chest, reminding of his recent wound and how the skin had been stretched at its seems. The doctor would give him hell for that one. His knuckles would be bruised, he’d be written up and be hauled into the chief’s office, but it was all worth it, to defend Isabelle in his own personal way.

Rogers muttered a string of profanity after he read Keith his rights and cuffed him. “Weaver, I’m going to have to report that.” The younger man informed him.

Weaver shrugged indifferently. “Do what you have to. I don’t regret it.” He answered, massaging the sore spots on his hand.

Isabelle was worth it.

#

Weaver pinched the bridge of his aquiline nose, tossed the pen down on the desk, and scooted back in his swivel chair. He closed his eyes momentarily and counted the seconds to sooth himself, rubbing his lids. Paperwork was always mind-numbingly boring.

Keith was in custody. The captain chewed him out for risking the integrity of the police force on a hunch, which could have cost them the case if Keith hadn’t stupidly confessed. His doctor yelled at him for taking his health in his own hands and for busting some of his stitches. And Rogers had been true to his word and told the absolute truth, but also put in a good word for Weaver, hinting that Keith might have provoked it.

All was right in the world. _Everyone else’s world, that is._

Weaver sighed and tugging the drawer open, he took out the copy of “Wuthering Heights” and thumbed through the pages. He landed on one of the front pages, where Isabelle Schwartz had signed her name. It was tacky that he had stolen something from a comatose woman; he wasn’t much of a reader beyond true crime books and mysteries, but the gothic romance had belonged to her. And it was the only thing he had of hers.

Since he solved the case, she stopped visiting him in his dreams.

He didn’t have time to hide the romance when Rogers swaggered up to his desk and rapped his knuckles on the surface of it. “Hey, I’ve got good news and great news. Good news is Nottingham plea bargained but he’s going away for a long time.” Rogers socked him gently in the shoulder. “C’mon, that’s what you wanted. Right?”

Weaver closed the book and stroked the slick green cover with his thumbs. “Isabelle isn’t visiting me in my dreams anymore.” He mumbled.

He didn’t have to look up to know that Rogers was gaping at him. His partner humored him but never really believed in the visions. Not that Weaver could blame him; if Rogers had come to him with such a bull shit story, he would have laughed his ass off.

“Oooo-kay, well, maybe my next piece of news will make up for that.” The inflection in Rogers’ optimistic tone was long and drawn out, enough to annoy the hell out of him. “Moe Schwartz called, Isabelle is awake. Per Moe, after your visit, she began to come out of her coma. The Schwartz’s are asking for you.”

Isabelle! She was alive and she was going to be all right. Most of all, she wanted him. Wanted him to visit, but it was something. I have to find out if she had the visions too.  
Weaver put the book down for a second and shot to his feet. “Well, why the hell didn’t you lead off with that?” Gritting his teeth to manage the pain of his jerky movements, he shrugged into his jean jacket and snatched “Wuthering Heights” up once more. “I swear to God, Rogers, your head’s so far up your-”

“Good to have you back, Weaver.” Rogers broke in before he could go off on one of his tangents.

Weaver waved him off and with book in hand, he stole out of the precinct.

#

Outside of Isabelle Schwartz’s room, Weaver adjusted the collar of his coat and held the bouquet of roses away from his body, so the juice from the stems would not drip on him. His whole body shook from head to toe at the prospect of finally meeting Isabelle, the woman of his dreams, his fallen angel. The last time he had been this nervous meeting a girl was when he was in high school. He patted his jacket pocket; the book was still tucked away in there. When the Schwartz’s were distracted, he’d find a way to put it back.

Sucking in a breath, he sailed into the room, managing a bashful smile. He was nearly bowled over by finding Isabelle sitting up in bed, chatting casually with her father. Her hair hung limply on her shoulders and her face clean of make-up betrayed her exhaustion, but to him she never looked more beautiful.

Her sparkling eyes landed on him and she motioned to her father.

Moe got to his feet, exclaiming aloud, “Look who’s here! Det. Weaver, thank you for coming by.” The older man continued to gush, and narrated in his booming voice, speaking as though Isabelle were a little girl and not a grown woman. “And look, Isabelle, he brought flowers. Isn’t that thoughtful?” Moe accepted the bouquet and laid them on the nightstand. “We wanted to thank you in person for bringing Keith Nottingham to justice.”

Weaver choked back a laugh; the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Moe’s feelings, but then again, he couldn’t blame the man for doting on his daughter like that. If it were my child, I’d be hovering over her too.

“Yes, thank you so much.” Isabelle chimed in, beaming up at him. She sounded polite and grateful but she was giving no indication that she had any memory of him. She was conversing with him as she might any other stranger. “I’ll never be able to-”

Weaver disregarded his sinking spirits. He’d go back to his crappy apartment and lick his wounds there. This was about the Schwartz family, not him. “No, think nothing of it. I am relieved to see that you’re doing better.” He waved her off and rummaging through his jean’s pocket, he extracted a card. “Here, this is my information. If either of you need anything-”

“Won’t you sit down for a bit?” Isabelle looked crestfallen and motioned for him to have a seat somewhere. “I’d like to get to know you-”

“Yeah, you can’t leave, you just got here.” Moe insisted and stepped away, offering his own chair.

Weaver was about to refuse when his gaze locked with Isabelle’s and he felt the familiar stirring that he felt when he dreamt of her. There was a flicker of recognition in her demeanor, encouraging him to hope that he wasn’t the only one who felt a connection.

Moe piped up once more. “You know what, I really need to run a few errands.” He seized Weaver by the shoulder and ushered him towards his daughter. “Detective, would you mind sitting with Isabelle for a bit? An hour, two hours tops?”

Isabelle’s plump lips curved into an easy smile as she looked at Weaver expectantly. “Yes, I’d love to have your company.” She entreated.

Lost in her gaze, Weaver heard himself agreeing. “Sure.”

 _Fool. As if you’d ever deny her anything._ He chided himself, taking a seat in the chair by the bed.

Moe slipped out of the room unnoticed by either of them, because Weaver noted that he was no longer there.

Isabelle leaned forward and placed her tiny hand on top of his larger one. “Detective, this may sound strange, but…have you had any dreams? Of us meeting?” There was a mixture of desperation and hope in her words that struck a chord with him as well. That he alone could comprehend. “The doctors and nurses say my mind was simply keeping itself occupied, but I remember you. I’ve seen your face.”

“Yeah.” Weaver nodded, his fingers aching to stroke her cheek once more. “I thought you were an angel. How was that possible?”

“I don’t know.” Isabelle lifted and dropped her slim shoulders. “The first time, I was wandering the halls and I found your room. You were in a bed.”

“You were going to kiss me.” Weaver added and felt the blood rush to his cheeks and…other places. “You kissed me in the dreams afterwards.”

“Well, you were going to kiss me in return. And you did kiss me later on.” Isabelle shot back playfully and giggled.

A split second later, Isabelle had molded her lips to his, giving him a sweet taste of heaven. He wanted nothing more than to climb in that bed, devest her of her hospital gown, and show her how much he adored her.

Instead he broke the kiss and drew back, ashamed of indulging himself. Isabelle was a good, pure soul who had been through a tragedy. She needed to heal and he was taking advantage of her vulnerability. They might have connected on some spiritual level, but this wasn’t some romance where he would get a happily ever after. It wasn’t in the cards for him.

“Isabelle, I’m not the man for you.” Weaver protested, thinking of the countless mistakes he had made over the years. “I’m broken, I-”

Isabelle level her gaze at him and he was left stumbling over his words. “Detective, will you read to me?” She scooted over as far as her hospital would allow and patted the empty space beside her. “My book went missing a few days ago, and something tells me that you have it.”

Weaver’s objections died on his tongue. He was no match for her, not when deep down, he wanted to be with her too.

He eased onto the cramped mattress, sliding his arm behind her back and around her waist. “Of course, my angel.” He placed a kiss on her brow, pulled the book out of his jacket pocket and picked up from the part where he had left off a few days ago.

Nothing felt so right as when Isabelle laid her head on his shoulder and cuddled against him. It was just like heaven.

**Author's Note:**

> http://bookwormchocaholic.tumblr.com/post/168233598249/fallen-angel


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